Note: At the beginning of this exchange, we are discussing the Real Housewives of Orange County reunion show. Please note how we discuss these people as if we know them personally. We have an addiction, obviously. But these are still worthwhile observations that should be recorded for posterity.
Lisa: I’m so glad they showed that clip of Brooks saying the bomb dot com.
Marianne: I know! He’s a fucking spectacle
Lisa: He really is.
Dude Vicki is SUCH a BITCH.
What a cunt!
Marianne: I know. I HAAATTTEEE her
Lisa: She’s the fucking WORST
Don was having an affair for 20 years? WTF?
Marianne: Yeah right. That’s horse shit.
Even if he was, she deserved it. Fucking whore
Lisa: That this whore sits there and says her daughter was lying when she was out there?!?!!!
I’ve never seen anything like it. Brooks and Vicki deserve each other.
Brianna needs to tell her to fuck off PERMANENTLY
Lisa: I can’t believe they’re all living together!
Marianne: I know. HORROR. Maybe Vicki can have an “accident” while they’re living together.
Like a fall down the stairs or an unfortunate and deadly incident with the blender
Lisa: That’s a good idea.
Maybe hit her head and fall in the pool and drown
Lisa: So how’s it going over there?
Marianne: One fucking thing after the other. My car battery died Tuesday while I was at the park with the kids and it was a million degrees out
And apparently since its a Volkswagen the battery is under the drivers seat
Lisa: Jesse Christ.
Marianne: It costs 350 American dollars to replace
Lisa: WHAT. FOR A BATTERY???!!!!
Marianne: I love “Jesse Christ”
That’s Jesus’ younger fuckup of a brother
Lisa: Me too. That’s why I left it.
He’s the one who lays on the couch all day in his bathrobe. Hitting his bong and watching Judge Judy.
Marianne: HAHA! Yes.
But other than that things are fine
Lisa: Well it sounds awesome.
Marianne: How are you? Still on death’s door?
Lisa: Yes. Goddamned augmentin hasn’t done jack shit. Going back to the dr at 3:15. I feel worse than ever.
Marianne: Good god.
Please tell me you’re laying down
Lisa: Uh, no. How would that be possible?
The doctor Sunday night told me to rest and I laughed in his stupid face.
Marianne: You should have been like “okay. I’ll drop my kids by your house around 6:00. They’ll need dinner. THANKS.”
Lisa: Yeah! He’s probably like, what’s the big deal? I just lie down whenever I feel like it, at my house.
Of course you do. You’re a dude.
Meanwhile his wife is cooking dinner and cleaning the house and plotting his death
Lisa:Isn’t that what we all do?
Sometimes I’ll see Carl sitting down watching TV and if he saw the murderous look that crossed my face he would be terrified.
Lisa: I think he’s pretty much terrified all the time.
Lisa and I were talking yesterday and I was whining about all of the things I have to do in the next few weeks and about why my life is so hard (waah). And I asked if there is any way I can just give up on life. How do I do that? Just lay down in a heap on the floor and stop breathing? (Which, incidentally, I wish my dog, Milli, would do. Preferably before I give birth to the second baby in a few months.) And Lisa said this to me: “Dude, you’re not taking proper advantage of your pregnancy.” I said, “really? I’ve been eating mountains of food every two hours. And I’ve turned into a super-dick. For example, if I roll my eyes at Carl one more time, I’m pretty sure he’s just going to go ahead and get his own place.” (Seriously, I had to call him the other day while he was at work and apologize for my general assholish behavior. He was pretty understanding. He said, “that’s okay. I know you’re really uncomfortable being 7 months pregnant and all.” Which is partly true. But mostly everything is just pissing me off. )
Lisa said “Yes, that’s all good. But you need to lie down and not move. Tell everyone that your doctor says you need a week of bed rest.” So, I’ve been thinking about this. It sounds pretty appealing. But I would kind of feel like a hypocrite because I am very critical of people (usually pregnant women) who treat pregnancy as a disability. IT’S NOT A DISABILITY. Unless you work in the coal mines, you can still do your job while you’re pregnant. I am always shocked at the number of women who want to quit their jobs or go on maternity leave WHILE THEY’RE PREGNANT. And do what, exactly? Lay around and grow a fetus? Is that a full-time job? I can do that while texting, writing rude blogs, and being a part-time lawyer and a full-time lyrical assassin. Sooo, what’s the deal, ladies?
Am I missing out on one of the greatest joys of pregnancy? Bed rest and lazing about? Or am I right? We should be able to do what’s expected of us, just at a slower and whinier pace? Please weigh in. I really need some feedback on this. Obviously, I’m too close to this issue to see it clearly.
***Also, if your doctor orders bed rest, I’m not such an asshole that I would advocate not bed-resting. But if your best friend orders bed rest, I think there might be some wiggle room there, no? Somehow, I don’t think my husband and my two-year-old would be real keen on me saying “Lisa said I need to lie down. And watch Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. And if one of you could massage my feet? That’d be great. What? I’m growing a baby.”
I recently realized something about myself. I have little to no sympathy for anyone who gets eight uninterrupted hours of sleep a night. I could be talking to a close friend of mine and they could be going through some serious shit. Like, their apartment is flooded, their car won’t start, and their boyfriend just broke up with them. And I’d be like, “but did you get a full night’s sleep last night? Oh, you did? And you don’t have a baby or toddler up on you right now? Well, girl you GOT this! Just make a few phone calls. And I’ll swing by and pick you up and we can go slash your ex-boyfriend’s tires right quick.”
I mean you ARE well-rested, right? Then I don’t see why you can’t solve any number of problems and then, probably, go on to take over the world. I know I’d be capable of all of that if I didn’t wake up every hour or so to a toddler screaming “Help me, mama, help me!” or “I need milk! CHOCOLATE milk!” What possesses my daughter to request chocolate milk in the middle of the night is beyond me. I have never provided her with chocolate milk at night. She probably thinks that if I miss enough sleep, chocolate milk at 3 a.m. will sound like a reasonable request.
Sleep is my number one priority. I know everyone says this, but you don’t realize how little sleep parenthood will allow you to have. It’s kind of shocking. I am always surprised there aren’t more murders of spouses due to sleep deprivation. Probably everyone is just too tired to actually kill someone.
I especially can’t handle it when some of my husband’s single or childless friends say how tired they are from staying out all night the night before. Oh, you’re tired from boozing it up all night last night? Awesome. Question, did the bartender bust up in your house at 2 a.m. and scream in your face until you did four shots of Tuaca and then karaoked a Prince song? No? Hmmm. (angry smile)
But the best is when people compare their pet’s shenanigans to your kids’ shenanigans. Like they’ll say, “yeah, my dog kept me up last night because he was jumping on the bed a lot and sometimes he would even sigh really loud.” Oh. REALLY? That’s the same as what I was saying which was “my two-year old had a fever of 103 last night and woke up every hour screaming and crying and it was horrible. She’s exhausted and we’re exhausted and she feels awful.” A dog and a two-year-old are pretty much the same thing. Especially a dog and a sick two-year- old.
Also, just as a side note to husbands everywhere, you are NOT as tired as your wife. You’ll never win that competition, so don’t even try. Just accept that getting more sleep is one of the many benefits of being a dude and move on with your life.
I was reading Facebook the other day and I saw a post that made my blood BOIL. It said something along the lines of “First-time moms crack me up. They just need to learn that it’s like a band-aid. Throw their kid in the classroom and then leave!” Oh really? Staying with your kid and comforting them if they are upset is somehow stupid or amateurish? And having more than one kid somehow instantly makes you a better parent? Because I’ve seen A LOT of evidence to the contrary.
But you know what? Go ahead, leave your kid when she’s crying and take your little ass to Starbucks to hang out with your other mom friends who have it all figured out. You deserve it!
Listen, I don’t necessarily have a problem with the statement. I’ve left Olivia plenty of times when she’s crying because I knew she’d be okay in 30 seconds. But sometimes, when she was really having a hard time, I would stay and talk to her for a few minutes. I don’t care how parents handle the dropping off of their children. AND WHY SHOULD I?? It’s none of my business. What bothers me is the underlying sentiment in this statement. The idea that some mothers, especially mothers who have it more than one child, have all the answers.
Why do moms need to say rude and smug things about other moms? Does this make them feel better? It’s bad enough that we all second-guess our parenting pretty much constantly. Do we really need other moms, who SHOULD be sympathetic since they are in the same position, making us feel bad for our parenting choices? It’s just another way for women to tear each other down. Why do we do this to each other? It’s hard enough to be a woman in this society without being criticized by your own people. AND we all know how hard it is to be a good mother. So, what is the point of this? Are we all that insecure about our own parenting choices? Is judging other moms down the only way to reassure ourselves about our own parenting?
Why can’t we say “I know that I am a good mother to MY child. Every child is different and what may work for me and my child may not work for others. Yes, on some days I struggle more than on others. But I’m going to let myself of the hook because I know that I am only human and I know that I love my child. ”
Maybe, women everywhere can decide that we can stand behind each other. That we can encourage and comfort each other. No one else understands what it’s like to be a mom except for other moms. Do you think your husband understands? Or your friends who don’t have kids? We could be each others’ greatest allies. Why aren’t we?
A little background on the following text exchange: Lisa’s fortieth birthday was August 17, so we had a girls’ trip planned for the weekend of August 20 to New Orleans. So, in this text exchange we are discussing what songs we might sing at karaoke on Friday night at the Cat’s Meow in New Orleans.
Lisa: I just baked a choc chip poundcake and it’s the fucking BOMB DIGGITY.
I will take your silence as solid approval.
Marianne: Sorry I was at the in-laws.
Fuck do I love choc chip pound cake
Btw, I loved your email. It was totally the right message. (see the bottom of this post where Lisa sends a warning email to all of the girls going on the trip)
Lisa: Ok good.
I can’t even believe how good it is.
Marianne: Well, you know you have my approval on any kind of chocolate chip cake.
Lisa: I’m practicing for karaoke night by belting it out in my kitchen.
Leavin by Jesse McCartney, I’m embarrassed to say. But I love that song! It’s my dirty little secret. I love the practicing in the kitchen. No one else sets foot in here. So I’m safe.
Marianne: I am not familiar with the ditty you’re referring to.
It’s not Leaving on a Jet Plane, is it? Bc that song is a classic going on the road song. As seen on Armageddon
Lisa: Of course you aren’t. You’d be embarrassed for me.
Lisa: Haha. No. It’s totally boy band shit.
Marianne: Dude, dont be embarrassed. I love that “i’d take a grenade for you” song.
Lisa: That song is good. I’m also considering Mr. Brightside by the Killers.
Marianne: Mr brightside is an excellent choice
Lisa: It would rock the house.
Marianne: Fo’ sho’
Lisa: Have to consider the atmosphere
Marianne: Yes. That’s key
Lisa: How about Gold Digger?
Marianne: Haha! Yes!
See him on tv any given Sunday. Win the Superbowl and drive off in a Hyundai
Marianne: If you ain’t no punk, Holla we want prenup we want prenup!!
Lisa: That song cracks me up.
Marianne: It’s hilarious
Lisa: 5 kids and I gotta take all they fat asses to Showbiz?!!
Marianne: Haha! I dont love you hoes!
I love that line so much. I can’t help myself.
Lisa: Me too. For the record, I’m offended. But I love it.
Marianne: Right. Snoop Dogg is EXTREMELY offensive to women
But I love him.
Lisa: Me too. I love Tha Doggfather.
Note: Here is the email Lisa sent out before our trip to New Orleans:
Just a few thoughts on New Orleans…
I’d really like this to be a “see where the day takes us” kind of trip. I don’t want to have a strict itinerary, but I do want to have some walking/ shopping time, pool time, drinking and dancing, casual eating, more drinking, naps, etc. We certainly don’t have to all hang out together all weekend. If people want to split off and do their own thing, that’s fine with me. I’m not planning on any fancy dinners, or fanciness of any kind. Please don’t look fancy. NO is high in crime. It is also dirty and full of poverty and panhandlers. Don’t talk to someone who says, “I can tell you where you got your shoes.” That person wants money. Don’t ask me how I know this. I am bringing fake jewelry and that’s it. I’m not saying that my fake jewels aren’t awesome, but if they get stolen I’m not going to be heartbroken. I will probably carry a purse but it will be one that I can keep close to my body.
I became aware at our Disneyland trip last week of just how much I go on “auto-pilot” and let Brad take the lead. So even though I have been to NO plenty of times, I’m not the best at directions or knowing what’s where. I did download a French Quarter app on my phone so that should help. Bring shoes that are comfortable to walk in, because we will be walking the quarter. Everything is close to our hotel, so walking is the mode of transport we will probably use most. Unless we are all hammered and can’t figure out how to get back to the Omni, then maybe a taxi is the answer.
Again, NO is high in crime, so just assume that everyone we come into contact with is armed. Just kidding, but there is some truth there. Let’s keep it cool at all times. No popping-off (side-eye to you, Marianne). No courting trouble or getting in fights. The last thing any of us wants to do is bail someone out of jail or take someone to the hospital.
It’s going to be hotter than balls there, so dress and hair accordingly. This is not a weekend to look pretty, it’s a weekend to have fun. Don’t bother spending too much time on hair and makeup unless you’re fine with it melting all over the place. Drink lots of water and please help me to do the same. It’s my 40th bday, but I don’t want to waste any of the short time we have there by being too drunk or too hung over to function. Help me know when to say when!
Thanks to all of you for making this happen. I had a lot of friends who told me they would, but you gals are the ones who came through for me and I really do appreciate that. It means a lot to me. Hearts are flying out of me right now (as Connor used to say).
You know who has always been there for me, never let me down, and has showered its magnificence on me on a regular basis? Target. Yes, Target, the superstore. I love it.
It has been my constant companion throughout my adult life. When I got my first apartment, I turned to Target for cheap, ill-advised furniture. Whenever I was suffering through yet another breakup, Target was there to support me with hair dyeing kits and Ben & Jerry’s Phish Food ice cream.
Don't judge me.
When I was in law school, my friend, Sarah, and I would go to Target after class and roam up and down the aisles buying useless and delightful things like: candles that smelled like apples, sangria in a wine cube, bags of chocolate candy, a movie from the $10.00 movie rack. It was glorious.
It's not wine in a box, it's wine in a CUBE.
When I got married, who provided the tasteful, yet inexpensive invitations? Target, that’s who.
When I got pregnant, Target was ready with reasonably priced maternity jeans. Other places that sell maternity clothes should be burned to the ground for the outrageous prices they charge.
You know I was a sexy beast in these.
When my baby was born and I realized that I STILL didn’t have a changing table cover (but I had 1,000 sheets and covers for the crib) where did I send my husband to haul ass to as if his life depended on it? Target.
Whenever I receive a Target giftcard on a special, gift-giving occasion, my heart leaps and I imagine the possibilities. What will I buy? A new lamp? A dog bed for Milli (obviously, that was before I had the baby. Now Milli is lucky to be allowed to sleep anywhere in the house. Bastard.) A new eyeliner? A giant bag of Tostitos so I can make a giant pan of nachos to eat all to myself? The options are endless!
No you can't HAVE any, they're mine! LAY OFF ME, I'M STARVING.
I would have to say that out of all of the people that have come in and out of my life, none of them comes close to offering the gentle support and boundless trinkets that Target does.
So, thank you, Target. I’ll see you soon for some nail polish and a Target Bookmarked Book of the Week.
Once I apply this nail polish, I will be so pretty and put-together-looking.
Hugs and kisses.
Hey, everyone! Good news: we’re not dead! We just suck at updating our blog. You know, real life gets in the way of TV and computer time. So, here is our text exchange for all of you loyal readers out there. Before I post it, though, I have to share a text that I received from a friend of mine:
Amie: Are you alive?
Marianne: Yes, just eating twizzlers.
Amie: Then for God’s sake, woman, pull yourself together and update your blog!
Okay, now for the text exchange.
Marianne: Here’s a serious problem: my only copy of Pulp Fiction was on VHS and I got rid of all of my videos in the move. UN-acceptable.
How did I allow this to happen?
Lisa: Oof. It feels like you just dealt me a blow to the gut.
What are you going to do?
Get thee to Best Buy, immediately.
Marianne: Well, I’m going to have to go out and buy it tomorrow
And watch it immediately to make amends.
Lisa: Yes. A ll those movies y’all own, and no Pulp Fiction?
What about Reservoir Dogs?
Marianne: Yes, we have that one, thank god.
Lisa: Ok good. I was about to have to call somebody.
Where would I report this?
Marianne: I think I would have to be publicly shamed on ACOTA (acaseoftheawesomes).
Lisa: That’s the only solution.
Is PF your favorite movie?
Marianne: It’s def one of them.
Lisa: My favorite. What else comes close?
Marianne: I don’t know. The Hand that Rocks the Cradle?
Lisa: Forgetting Sarah Marshall?
Marianne: Girls just wanna have fun?
Lisa: Haha! Yes. Dirty Dancing?
Marianne: Of course. Battlefield Earth?
Lisa: Haha! Did you just google “worst movie ever?”
Marianne: The honeybadger video. (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4r7wHMg5Yjg) (that’s for all of you to watch and laugh your ass off)
Lisa: I’m at Rainforest Cafe. Don’t be jealous.
Marianne: How can I not be? I love monkey pot pie and toucan salad while the relaxing sounds of the rainforest blare in my ears.
This is Tracey Tree.
Marianne: Those are TERRIFYING.
Lisa: I know!!!
Marianne: Is Cam (Lisa’s 18 month-old) huddled up in the fetal position crying? Are you?
Lisa: Both. We have both hit the wall.
Should I get Milli a souvenir?
Marianne: Oh yes. She will hold it and squeeze it and make it her own.
Lisa: I ordered fried cheese. I’m about to drown my sorrows.
Marianne: Well fried cheese is the best way.
That’s something you order when you just don’t give a fuck anymore.
Marianne: Exactly. And when the waiter brings it out, you challenge him with your eyes.
“Say somethin’ biatch!”
Lisa: I will. I’m going to slap it right out of his hand.
I’m just going to open wide like a baby bird.
Marianne: just dump it all in here, “waiter.”
Lisa: Haha! Don’t even act like my kids are getting any of that, “waiter”!!!
Marianne: Right! You know REAL waiters do not work at Rainforest Cafe, btw!
Lisa: NOW BRING ME MY DAMN CHECK SO I CAN GET THE HELL OUT.
And he fucked up my order. Thank god for the cheese.
Marianne: He’s real lucky. He’s about to become Tracey Tree’s permanent accessory.
Lisa: Haha! I’m about to stick Tracey Tree’s right arm up his little ass.
At least the food there is really top drawer.
Lisa: Right. GAG.
It’s amazing what people will eat.
Every summer here in Dallas, I get REAL pissed off. Because of the heat. It’s not just that I hate getting pit stains in my professional clothing (suits and whatnot), it’s also that I hate having a perpetual sweat ‘stache. It’s not cute.
Yes. Not a hint of shame. He's like, "what do you want from me? It's 8000 degrees outside."
It’s not even officially summer yet, and already I’m having my annual melt-down where I start wondering if maybe I’m manic depressive or bipolar. Or maybe I just can’t handle real life?
Looks okay from here, get any closer and you will actually start to emit steam.
By mid-July, I will need someone to talk me down from the ledge and bail me out of jail for punching all of the people here in Texas who say they “love the heat.” How is THAT possible? Unless your actual job is lay on a float in a pool all day long and imbibe ice-cold adult beverages AND the pool remains cooler than bathwater, there is NO WAY you can love summer in Texas.
Where's her cocktail?
That brings me to appropriate clothing and outfit choices for 150 degree weather. Not all of us look good in mesh shirts and denim panties. Well, pretty much no one looks good in that shit.
There are no words.
Britney, come ON, girl!
So, what can we wear? It’s a conundrum. You don’t want to wear any of the shirts you really like because they will be instantaneously ruined by flop sweat. But you do want to try to look decent, if only to bolster your mood a little. I still don’t have the answer to this. I just buy a bunch of tank tops from Old Navy every year and wear one for each day of the week , except on weekends. I just stay in my pajamas then. I can tell by the look on Carl’s face when he sees me put one of the five colors (hot pink, yellow, black, white, light pink) on that it’s not really that awesome. In fact, it clearly makes him sad.
Obv, I don't look like this pretty lady when I'm wearing them.
Listen, it’s hard enough to get through my daily chores and bullshit without getting in my boiling car and setting my ass on fire. The minute I get in my car to go to the grocery store or court, or wherever the fuck, and my face and neck starts DRIPPING sweat within seconds, I just want to give up, go back in the house, grab a Nestle Drumstick, lay down under the ceiling fan and slip slowly into madness. Who’s with me?
You're the only one who understands me, drumstick.
Background: This text exchange took place on Thursday night, May 19.
Lisa: Don’t forget Rapture is happening on Saturday.
Marianne: Get right with Jesus, girl.
Lisa: Haha!! Meet us at the church in the morning. We’re getting baptized.
Marianne: Good! Just in time. Can we get Milli baptized, too?
Because I don’t want to spend my afterlife without her.
Lisa: No. Milli is Satan’s spawn.
Lisa: She’s the reason that Jesus is coming.
Marianne: Ha! He has heard about her shit and he’s coming to put an end to it.
Lisa: Right. He hates her ass so much that he’s going to burn the world down.